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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/27641990">Fall from Grace</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/2Atoms/pseuds/13atoms'>13atoms (2Atoms)</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>The Great (TV 2020)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Angst, F/M, Fluff, Oneshot, Orlo being cute, Romance</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-11-20</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-11-20</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-06 19:15:13</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Not Rated</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>6,144</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/27641990</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/2Atoms/pseuds/13atoms</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Marial's sister has found her relationship to Orlo severed since being forced into serfdom. Yet, despite everything, she still finds herself seeking him out for comfort.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Count Orlo / F!Reader, Count Orlo / Reader, Count Orlo / you</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>4</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>13</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Fall from Grace</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p> </p><p></p><div class="">
  <p> </p>
  <p></p>
  <div class="">
    <p>You bit back a curse at the barking laughter of Lord Gurin, trying to serve him without becoming too furious. You could see Marial’s glare towards the man matching your own as he recognised the pair of you. A contemporary of your disgraced father, he’d quickly joined the Emperor in mocking your plight, making you run to and fro like fools as you served him at the banquet.</p>
  </div>
  <div class="">
    <p>He was a man you had once regarded like an uncle, who lived on his estate far from the palace, and would gleefully sneak you candies and fine clothes on your birthdays. Yet another family member you and your sister had lost, he apparently valued his loyalty to the Emperor more than the girls he used to call ‘nieces’.</p>
  </div>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Several noble families were visiting, this feast a precursor for the Emperor’s raucous birthday the next evening, and there were titled guests sat all around the room. You could see your acquaintances from the servant’s quarters serving a few of them. Each scan of the room revealed someone else you had once thought of as a contemporary, perhaps a potential political marriage option, or a friend who could no longer meet your eyes.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>At the head table, barely a few seats from the Emperor, sat General Velementov and Count Orlo, both separately picking at their food, watching the room nervously.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>There was an electric energy in the air, something you couldn’t quite place, and the men’s silence unsettled you further.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“There will be blood on these walls soon,” Marial had warned you, her typical drawl filled with a spiteful excitement which made your stomach drop. “Someone is going to die.”</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>It had happened, on occasion, that Emperor Peter would throw the largest party he could manage in order to draw an audience for a violet execution. The victim would never see it coming. You wondered if Marial knew who was to be the next evening’s entertainment.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Surveying the room only made you nervous, your eyes drawn over and over to old friends, and to perhaps your only current one: the silent bureaucrat who was attempting to drill through his plate as he played with a salad fork.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>The pair of you had been friends for years, and had started a slow, sweet relationship in the months before your family was disgraced and reduced to serfdom. Peter had heard whispers that the two of you were together – and quickly stomped on your relationship. Forbidding him from seeing you had not worked initially, Orlo begging you to sneak into his rooms, but slowly the pressure of sneaking around had left the pair of you as mere friends.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Even as you respected his decision, you hated how much you missed him. It was yet another thing you had lost with your money and title.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>In front of you Lord Gurin coughed, spluttering on a mouthful of food, and you turned your attention back to him quickly as he clicked his fingers. After seconds of choking and slapping the table, he spat disgustingly, making you wince as he gulped down water. Soon enough he had returned to his food, speaking at you with a tone which succeeded in being disparaging even through a mouthful of half-chewed meat.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>As he demanded a fresh glass of wine for no reason at all, you dashed forwards, ignoring his laughter as a foot stamped onto your skirts and forced you to stumble. A little of the dark red wine spilled, marking your cheap clothes unflatteringly, and you could see the splitting of Marial’s bottom lip as she bit it to avoid a spiteful comment towards the man.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Some uncle he had turned out to be. You refused to let yourself cry as you returned with a fresh glass for the red-faced man, his face already ravaged by a life of excess, deep red lines marring his nose from overindulging in the wine he was so fond of.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>You saw his huge hand reach out to grab you as you walked away, swerving your body rapidly to avoid him, refusing to hear his voice calling to you by first name over the din of the dining hall.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>One of the other servants, as much as they resented you for your previous status, would have to serve him.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>With your dress ruined, it was as much excuse as any to load your arms up with unwanted plates and march to the servant’s quarters. Certainly the head housekeeper would not stand for poorly dressed help. You realised how red-raw your hands would become attempting to scrub the stain from the light fabric you wore, your fingertips slowly roughening from a kind of hard work you hadn’t had to engage in before in your life.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Your needlessly circuitous route of shortcuts took you briefly though the halls, past the Queen Mother. You made sure to stick a single middle finger up at her heavily-bejewelled corpse before descending the servant’s staircase.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>After just weeks of enduring the horrific conditions serfs were expected to live in, you were at your wit’s end. And still careful to avoid Peter’s ire. His anger at your father had cooled somewhat, but yourself and Marial were still targets for harsh words or joking potshots if he happened to see you whilst carrying his hunting weapon.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>She had warned you of it once, red-faced and swearing as she’d been forced to run from a smashed window.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p><em>“Bastard!” </em>she’d spat, “he could have just killed our father. Better that than for us to suffer, while the old man gets to play with <em>horses</em>.”</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>You knew she resented him, deeply. That she took her anger out on everyone else. You understood that feeling better than anyone.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>It was as though everything you held dear had been ripped from you. Friends refused to speak to either you or your sister unless it was to disparage you, to mock your change in circumstance. All worldly possessions, relationships with all the people you trusted, had simply dissolved at the Emperor’s will.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p><em>Except for one friendship</em>, you reminded yourself.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Perhaps even that one friend would give up on you too. Already, he was seeming more distant, your social exile making any meaningful connection between you strained by secrecy.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>You gave an apologetic look to the kitchen boys as you dumped the plates in their cleaning buckets, rushing away before you could be assigned another chore in favour of trying to save your skirts and finding a new dress.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Stripping the outer layer of your dress off, you threw it into a bucket, your privacy now feeling like a distant memory as muddied floorboards creaked underfoot and thin scrap-fabric walls moved with the breathing of the palace.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“Fuck!”</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Another serf, rebandaging blisters perched on the cot beside your own, gave you a glare as you leant your head forward against the window in despair.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Your spare dress was still wet, unable to dry in the day since you had washed it.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>With the wine-ruined fabric already drenched too, you would be forced to wear it. Not for the first time, running away crossed your mind. Or hiding, hoping your absence wouldn’t be noticed.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>It wasn’t the worst idea in the world, you admitted to yourself.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Orlo had always offered to let you hide in his office, a cheeky eyebrow raised in the few moments you could find to reminisce with an old friend.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>The Count had let you lament your tragic turn in luck with him, holding you as the pair of you cried – him in sympathy and you in fear.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>If you were honest with yourself, you had been avoiding him lately, feeling yourself beginning to break under the strain of your new working lifestyle. You were unwilling to admit to him you were weak, spoilt, that you didn’t know how to survive a life of servitude.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>In the week since you had seen him last, the novelty had worn off. You had realised your fellow servants wouldn’t suddenly begin to like you. That your old friends would continue to delight in treating you as a lesser being, throwing insults and giving you chores far beyond what was mandated by Peter’s humiliation of your family.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Your sister would not soften, only become crueller and more bitter, the longer she was forced into servitude – her rank still far above anyone else’s at the palace in her own mind.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>The deep loneliness inside you would not shift. Even your one friend at the palace was being slowly wrought from you by factors beyond your control.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Marial hated that you spoke to Orlo, your only remaining friend. She wanted him gone from your life, even though he was the only person you had left.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>In truth, you had begun to neglect your relationship with the kind man. Even as you needed him most, your work and your shame kept your from spending meaningful time with the Count.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Your nails were breaking and your back ached each moment, your face hollowed out from sleeplessness and your feet blistered from constant walking.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Each night, sheer hopelessness would overtake you, the coughing of serfs around you keeping you awake long enough to realise you would most likely die like this – hated by everyone around you, struggling to sleep on an empty stomach and shivering through thin, unwashed sheets.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Without realising it, you had arrived at Orlo’s doors with tears creeping down your face.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>You were too far from the banquet to hear whether it was still raging on, however you assumed it would go on long into the night. It was so busy and so chaotic, both for guests and servants, no one but Marial would likely note your absence. And she would not come looking for you. Not when he was so busy trying to keep herself afloat.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Just for a moment, you convinced yourself, you would sneak into Orlo’s room to hide from the world. To pretend everything was alright and to feel warmth from his fireplace and the gentleness of his comfortable furniture supporting your aching body.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Most likely you would be gone before he returned, perhaps he might not even return that night.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>As the tall door creaked open, the room beyond it illuminated by the warm flames of only a few tall candles, you almost felt at home.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Just a few moments curled up on his Marquise sofa, you rationalised. The blanket he usually kept folded beside it was strewn across the furniture, as if he had gotten up in a hurry, and you pulled it around yourself as you lay down.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>It was quiet here. Quieter than beneath the palace, or the halls outside. A kind of peacefulness, punctuated only by the light patter of falling rain. For the first time in weeks, you allowed yourself the luxury of slow, deep breaths. The kind which filled your lungs so much your chest ached and your tears flowed faster.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>You hadn’t realised you were falling asleep until you were awoken by the gentle closing of a door, and you suddenly froze. The room seemed cooler now, perhaps as night had closed in and the curtains remained open, and the fire unlit.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>You wondered if the Count always kept his quarters this cold. You had never noticed before. Then you remembered.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>The sofa beneath you was a little wet from the <em>stupid </em>dress, and remembering the sequence of events which had led you to the door made you angry. Angry at the stupid Count Gurin, angry at yourself, at your father, at Peter – and yet the sight of Orlo’s concerned face cooled your temper immediately.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“You’re shivering.”</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“My dress is fucking wet,” you grumbled, cold and uncomfortable in the heaviness of the damp fabric.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>With a glance at the clock, you realised you had been asleep less than half an hour. The party still ought to be raging on, rife with increasingly drunken speeches and countless rounds of smashed glasses and gluttony.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>He had not been surprised to see you, you realised.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“Did you know I was here?”</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“My servant boy told me,” Orlo informed you timidly, a faint smile on his face as he lit more candles, “he said there was a strange woman asleep in my rooms.”</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Blearily, you watched as he gently placed a candleholder on the table beside you.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“Did you find her?”</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Orlo was caught off-guard, laughter erupting from him midway through removing his jacket. You couldn’t help smiling along as he dropped back into the armchair beside your reclined body, rubbing his face exasperatedly with one hand.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“I can make up some excuse for her, I am sure,” he declared.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Orlo yawned as he put his feet up, his eyes closing, and you took a moment to wonder why exactly he had not been concerned by your sudden appearance in his personal rooms.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“I’m sorry for just showing up,” you told him quickly, pulling the blanket around yourself even as the dampness of your dress made it uncomfortable and wet, “I can be on my way if you just say the word.”</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>He rolled his head towards you lazily, regarding you with a relaxed curiosity, and you wondered just how exhausted he must be to be so uncaring and easygoing. It was unlike him.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Orlo’s eyes remained closed as he spoke. Perhaps he was imagining he was still speaking to a woman dressed in finery, who ate fine cucumber sandwiches and top-shelf vodka for lunch.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“Nonsense. I am grateful for your company. Assuming you don’t mind me interrupting your nap?”</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“God, sorry. I had no intention of falling asleep, it just happened –”</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>With a heavy sigh, he laid his head back against the top of his chair again. Removing his glasses to rub at his eyes, you could see the stress he must be holding. You felt a little bad for adding to it, in truth.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“I’m glad you showed up here. I was worried for you,” he said, “that you were… struggling. Growing distant.”</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>When you said nothing, he looked at you once again, his look so searching it made you shrink to hide yourself against the chaise and beneath the blanket you were borrowing without permission.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“I am sure you are struggling,” he added.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>You hung your head.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“Yes.”</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Unable to repress another violent shiver, you wondered what Orlo saw in you. Someone pathetic, unable to cope without the spoilt life they were accustomed to? A leech, clinging to the one person who had not rejected them, breaking into their rooms in a pathetic attempt to steal a crumb of luxury?</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>No.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>That was what everyone else saw.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Sincerely, you had never feared what Orlo saw in you. Rather you felt yourself unable to live up to it.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“I will call for someone to light a fire. It is cold in here. And to get you dressed in something warmer. You may have to borrow my clothes, I am afraid, but that will do.”</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“Thank you,” you whispered, watching as he exasperatedly shouted for someone.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>The pimply boy who arrived looked half Orlo’s age, but barely flinched at the sight of you in his room, acting with complete professionalism as he guided you to a different room to dress – the boy choosing a heavy robe for you to wear over your undergarments. Only out of Orlo’s line of sight did he give you a curled-lipped glare.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Perhaps if you were still worth a ruble in this place, he might have called for a female serf, perhaps to help you dress or to fetch you some clothes. Instead you had to remind yourself that being wrapped in a borrowed gown and given the privacy of a closed door was a luxury most beneath the palace would never receive.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>When you walked back out into the room Orlo was alone, but a tea tray had been set and the tall flame of a freshly set fire licked at the hearth.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Wordlessly, Orlo offered you one of the cups. You took it with damaged fingers, and his own . He had only a distinctive writing callous on his ring finger, his neat nails and soft fingertips smudged slightly with writing ink as he regarded the way serfdom had ravaged the previously-soft skin of your hands.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>The pair of you used to hold hands a lot, you recalled, when you were walking together along paths in the woods or he was guiding your pointer finger across a page to a passage he particularly wanted you to read.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>He let go of your hand gently, allowing you to return to picking up the saucer you had been reaching for, and you tried to force tears from your eyes.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“He will gossip,” you sighed, nodding to the door the servant boy must have left through. “Fuck, I will be even <em>more </em>poorly regarded.”</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“Surely, you have already reached the worst they can say about you,” Orlo teased.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>You tried to force yourself to laugh, but instead the noise which came out was an awkwardly stunted sob.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>You had never seen the Count look so stricken – not even as you had watched him hear the news of your demotion, forced to stand facing the court beside your sister and father as if about to place your heads into nooses at a triple gallows.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>You could still remember the raise of his eyebrows and the clench of his jaw as he watched you from the gathered crowd, Peter’s words tuned out as you watched Orlo hear your sentencing.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“That was foolish. Stupid. I was… trying to joke. I am sorry.”</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“You are, unfortunately, likely right,” you conceded, letting the cup burn your fingers as you gripped it tightly to distract yourself from the tension in the room, “perhaps if I can sink just a little lower, someone might finally have the decency to kill me in my sleep.”</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>It was Orlo’s turn to fail to laugh, his awkwardness transposed into his posture and the way he gripped the arm of his chair. His voice was strained, perhaps attempting to convey an emotion as chauvinistic as anger when all you could hear was upset.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“I would have the whole palace searched until the perpetrator was destroyed.”</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>You snorted cruelly.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“Perhaps you could convince Peter to bestow a medal onto them. Anyone who ended my suffering would be doing me a favour.”</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“Please don’t say that.”</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>The fire had finally died back, allowing you to stare into the warm orange of crackling logs as you refused to dignify Orlo with a response.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Minutes passed in a crawl, and yet neither of you interrupted them. As your chill vanished, sips of the sweet tea helping to banish the feeling of cold from your body, the ache in your previously-numb feet worsened.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“Do you mind if I put my feet up?”</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>The question seemed rather a moot point, after you had slept on the very same piece of furniture with your muddied shoes on, but it felt polite to ask. You waited for a nod before kicking your shoes off, quickly wiping the blood from your heels before turning to rest your legs out on the sofa.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“That looks horrendous,” Orlo croaked.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“The shoes are rather unpleasant. I wonder if its intentional. Making sure that no one can run away if their feet have been hacked at as if with a butcher’s toolkit.”</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>The man stood silently, crossing the room until he returned with a couple of monogrammed handkerchiefs. He handed them to you, and you took them unsurely, placing them beside you as the Count returned to his seat.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>He frowned.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“For your feet.”</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“I know.”</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Orlo moved as if to stand beside you again, but you waved him away.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“I will only have to scrub the blood out later,” you explained.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Wrapping his robe tighter around you, you felt uncomfortable at the look he gave you. It was pitying, like one might give a limping hunting dog which was unknowingly minutes from hearing its very last gunshot.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>His eyes drifted to the dark wall opposite him, but you noticed how he kept glancing back at your bloodied feet, at the damage on your hands as they clutched dishware which was now far too expensive for your rank.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“When I saw how you were being treated at the banquet earlier… I wanted to pull the Emperor aside. Beg him to see reason.”</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>You replaced your empty teacup beside his gently, the <em>clink</em> of china drawing Orlo from the contemplation he was lost in.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“He never will.”</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Orlo huffed. You had endured this conversation with him a dozen times, your hope that all his plots and schemes to help you might even actually go anywhere. Orlo was wise enough to never stick his neck out too far for anyone, let alone an enemy of the crown.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Nonetheless, he ranted as though he might find the confidence to do something one day.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“It is not your fault! Your <em>father </em>did something stupid. And God knows I have no love for your sister, but you have both been treated unfairly!”</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“When was anything in this fucking place ever fair, Orlo,” you snapped back, arms crossed.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>You were sick of hearing his meaningless words.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“If there is nothing you can do about it,” you told him firmly, “please stop bringing it up.”</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“I am angry for you,” he explained weakly.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>You fought not to roll your eyes, knowing he meant well.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“Your family name… It will be a curse for as long as Peter is alive,” he told you regretfully, his hands folding in his lap.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“I am well aware,” you ground out.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“Perhaps I could – ”</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>As you were about to beg him to shut up, a furious banging on Orlo’s door startled both of you. Your small tiff was forgotten as you looked to one another in panic, and Orlo motioned for you to hide. You darted behind his bed, getting to the floor before the Count rose slowly, pausing for a second before you heard the door crack open.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>The opening door sent a sheet of light to cut through the darkness on the ceiling of the room, and outside corridor bringing in a gust of cool air along with its brightness as you stared up beyond the canopy of Orlo’s bed to watch the ceiling.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Orlo’s sigh barely preceded a familiar voice, and you caught yourself sighing in sympathy with him.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“My sister. Where is she?”</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“Marial. It is very late –”</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“Don’t bullshit me.”</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>It was a wonder he never had Marial punished, never even spoke back to her as the woman barged her way into the room, her vague shadow shifting the light across the ceiling as she barged past Orlo. He kept the door held open.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“She is not here,” he insisted.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“Liar.”</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Marial’s voice was closer, sharper, and you realised there was no point continuing to hide. Two cups was a dead giveaway.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>You stood before Marial even pointed out his mistake.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“Ah!”</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>She sounded neither surprised nor pleased to find you, instead she simply relished in being <em>right</em>. Her fingers found your wrist, pulling you towards her with a harsh grip as you stumbled not to fall. She tugged along as if you were both still children, and you hissed at the pain of digging heels in and stopping her, feeling your wounds scratched by the carpet underfoot.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“Come <em>on</em>,” she hissed, “what the fuck are you wearing?”</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“I was cold.”</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“Well take it off! They are looking for you.”</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>You groaned, trying to keep your focus on Marial to avoid the embarrassment of Orlo witnessing the whole exchange. Distantly you heard the door close, the man walking closer to both of you as you were forced to bodily resist your sister pulling you from the Count’s rooms.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“I hope the fucking this lobcocked <em>bore </em>is giving you is worth it,” she spat, “you will be whipped as soon as you descend those stairs.”</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>You pulled back at her vicious grip unable to free yourself. She was seething, in a way which had always scared you a little.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“Come <em>on</em>,” Marial spat, vitriolic and threatening, purposefully loud enough to embarrass you infront of Orlo, “the house mistress is waiting with a cane.”</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“If that is the case, surely I can be back a little later –”</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Marial’s fingers dug tighter into your wrist, her infamous temper rearing up and making you cry out, trying to wrench your hand away from the half-crescent cuts her fingernails were threatening to form in your skin.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“Marial, I am asking you to leave,” he told her sternly.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Orlo’s hands settled around each of your wrists, his grip on Marial seeming bruisingly hard as she suddenly released her grip on you and instead focussed on getting away from Orlo. She almost hissed as she glared at him.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“I said leave.”</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>With one last glare at you, she marched away.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>You took a moment to watch him, the different side to him usually reserved for meetings with foreign strategists and impassioned arguments behind closed doors, and had to force yourself to close your mouth.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Wordlessly he pulled you closer to him, pulling your wrist closer to his face. You could feel his breath for just a split second, dancing warm across your skin as he assessed the damage. His thumb rubbed gently across your skin, feeling the remaining indents under the gentle ridges of his thumbprint.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>With a quiet tutting to himself, Orlo released you. His hair had fallen loose a little, and he brushed a lock of hair off his face, rubbing the tension in his forehead as returned to his armchair. You could sense the agitation in him, enough to match your own as you tried not to overthink the fate which awaited you once you left the bubble of safety in his rooms.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>In a daze, you sat back in your spot once again – a sense of déjà vu washing over you – the room darkening as candles burned to stumps and the log fire reduced to embers as it was left unstoked.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>You moved to throw another log on the fire, stoking it for a moment in the way you’d been taught by other serfs. Orlo poured himself a cup of tea from the teapot, before cursing as he sipped it and realised it had grown cold.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>After a moment of dead silence, both of you spoke at the same time.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“I’m so sorry –”</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“Fucking hell –”</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Orlo’s face fell into his hands as you slouched against the back of the sofa.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>You could tell he was angry, and you were too, but you tried to tamper it for both your sakes. There was nothing to be done. You felt the need to defend your sister, even as her nailprints ached in your forearm.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“I’m sorry about that. You shouldn’t have to see our arguing.”</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Orlo waved his hand dismissively.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“I am glad I was here.”</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>His voice was so firm it took you by surprise, making you look down at your lap, away from the intensity Orlo was exuding.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“She just… harbours a lot of resentment for what happened to us,” as his brow furrowed, you laughed to yourself, “well, for what happened to <em>her</em>. I think she will settle with time.”</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“I hate that she speaks to you like that.”</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>You laughed sarcastically, deep in your throat, and Orlo furrowed his brow.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“You are shaking,” he noted.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“I am not keen to ‘<em>descend those stairs’</em>.”</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>You tried to get a laugh from the man as you mimicked Marial’s words, but instead he guided you to sit down again, one hand on your back as he sat both of you side by side.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>The patch beneath his fingers would soon be marred by strike marks, but for the moment you let yourself enjoy the comforting circles he was rubbing through the fabric. You doubted he even knew he was doing it, as distracted as he was by his own thoughts.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Finally, as his motions had begun to completely calm you, he spoke.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“I know I have talked a lot about helping you. Said… ridiculous things. I have complained when I should have simply been here for you to complain to –”</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>You tried to cut him off, to comfort him, but he silenced you with a pleading look.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“I <em>will </em>do something. You’ll never go back down the serf steps again. I promise.”</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Even as you couldn’t believe his words to be anything but empty, you tried to allow yourself a brief moment in the oasis of hope where you might be able to believe them.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“That is kind,” you smiled, hoping your tone came across less agitated than you felt. “but please don’t give me false hope.”</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>He rolled his neck, hands cradling his own jaw for a moment, as if he were preparing himself for something. You felt a strange anxiety as he formulated his words, the fire crackling loudly and making the room smell a little smoky as the log you had added was completely engulfed in a vicious flame.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“Your name is the problem.”</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“Rather, my status is the problem.”</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“You have done nothing. Your relation to your father is the reason you are being punished. If you were to be – ”</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“Peter does not see it that way.”</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Fear rose in your chest and you cut him off, seeing his face fall as he lost momentum.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“You know what I am asking.”</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Inertia seemed to hold him back, his words now coming slow and heavy, as though he had to force them from his chest.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>You shook your head. You couldn’t allow yourself to fall for the fantasy. Imagining waking up here… being beside Orlo each day.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>It would be a marriage of convenience. Political, a pitying favour to you. You wouldn’t be able to bear it. And yet, the seriousness of his offer and the kindness in his heart almost stopped your breaths from rising in your chest.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“I refuse to drag you down with me,” you told him kindly, knowing you ought to go and gather your uncomfortable dress, leave him his gown, and leave him in peace.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Yet you couldn’t leave him. Not for the pain and cruelness of your real life.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“You would never drag me down. Having you in my life would be nothing but a blessing.”</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>As much as you longed to ignore the emotion in his voice, you couldn’t.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“Everyone hates me Orlo. Serfs for being born titled, and those titled hate me for being a serf.”</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“You know I harbour nothing <em>close </em>to hatred for you. Quite the opposite.”</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>You sighed.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“You are so much… more than me. More important. I have – I <em>am – </em>nothing.”</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“If your recent change in circumstances has taught me anything, it’s that titles and status mean nothing. Not when they can be taken so quick and are so arbitrarily assigned. What you have lost, what you have survived, it makes you nothing but stronger in my eyes. More extraordinary. Please let me do all I can to help you.”</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Eyes closed, you bowed your head, wishing you could take a year to think and overthink this. Orlo had meant everything to you. He was a man you truly loved. Your young relationship had been stomped out by Peter, and yet it was much like the fire, needing just kindling to burn bright again.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>But it threatened to disrupt his own power.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Perhaps you had thought for too long, because Orlo got on his knees in front of you. His hands clasped your knees as his wide eyes reflected the orange light of the candles which surrounded the pair of you. You’d missed being allowed to stare at him, you realised, you would give anything to wake each morning and be greeted by the deep coffee brown of his irises and his slight smile, before he regretfully headed off to his desk.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>This room had always been dangerous, in how it made you feel so at home. Even months before your brief courtship, you had imagined carding your hands through his hair as you stood behind him, watching his neat penmanship as he replied to correspondence and drafted all manner of policymaking notices for Peter.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>You reached out for him, your fingers settling on where his shoulders met his neck, tracing the patterning of his waistcoat material.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“I adore you. Truly. But if you will not marry me for reasons of the heart, then please… use this as an act of self-preservation. Knowing you are safe would be enough for me.”</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“You want me to marry you?”</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“I always have.”</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>With a sigh, you lent forwards, tempted for a moment to pull him close enough to kiss.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>There were tears in his eyes as you softly shook your head.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>For years you had wanted your life with Orlo beyond all reason, and you still did. But there was no power short of Cupid’s intervention which would be enough to keep you together as soon as word</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“I am the most hated person in this palace –”</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“No –”</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“Yes, Orlo. I… fuck. You are offering me something which I cannot accept. If this were for love, and a safe idea, I would however…”</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>You searched his eyes, knowing he understood as disappointment filled his features.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“I’m sorry. I know. It was a stupid idea.”</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“Orlo… it’s not your fault. I am grateful you offered but… Peter always wins. He <em>always </em>gets his way. I am condemned to die down there. The rest of us are left powerless to his whims.”</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>He was shaking a little, his vice-tight grip loosening on your knees as his excitement faded. He was far more still than you knew him, his usual racing mind seeming to grind to a slow pace as he turned to stare towards the fireplace.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>It was hopeless.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“Let me help you.”</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>His voice was cracking, and you felt tears slip down your own cheeks.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“You can’t.”</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“Let me help you leave.”</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Orlo’s determination, no matter how often he was brushed aside by those in power, was something which you had always been in awe of. Now you could see it plain in his features, and you tried not to shudder.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“What do you mean?”</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“Anywhere is better than here. I will give you money, there is treasury gold stashed somewhere, and I can –”</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“I’ll never see you again,” you cut him off with a croak, the salt of tears on your lips as you tried to understand what he was saying.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“There is a goods carriage leaving for the south. Tomorrow. I know the driver, I can bribe him, you will be comfortable –”</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>With a slow comprehension of his words, you nodded.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“And what of Marial?”</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“<em>I </em>will deal with Marial,” he told you firmly, “but you will be safe.”</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Overcome by his kindness, you could only nod.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>You joined him on the floor, kneeling with your feet beneath the sofa as you hugged him tightly, so tightly you hoped he might remember what this meant to you long after your name was a distant memory in this place.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“I would have loved to marry you.”</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Muffled, your words were directed into his shoulder. You felt Orlo’s hand on your back, making comforting circles again.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“And I you. It would have been beautiful.”</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“Fuck, I will miss you,” his voice cracked with a sob, “stay with me tonight?”</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“Of course.”</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>There was silence as the two of you slid into bed, Orlo stripping out of his outer layers but not bothering to change.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>He pulled you close, and you moulded your body to his, too emotionally drained to feel anything but comfort from being so entwined with him.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>The silence of the room was traitorously peaceful, as a storm raged on in both your minds.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“I miss you already,” you whispered through the darkness.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Orlo’s arms tightened around you, before he briefly let go. The Count rolled away to rummage through his bedside table, returning to spoon you just as you were about to demand to know what he was doing.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>You jumped a little in his arms at the feeling of cold metal against your skin as he moved to find your hand, counting to your ring finger beneath the covers. Wordlessly, you felt him slip the cool metal onto your finger, burying his face in your neck as you drew your hand to your face, trying to squint to see the ring in the light. It was gold with a cut emerald, and you pressed it to your lip, fighting back sobs.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>The metal felt alien on your finger, and yet you already knew you could never part with it </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“Orlo?”</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>His breath ghosted across your neck, his arms tightening around your waist, his whisper making you shiver a little. </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“My mother’s engagement ring.”</p>
</div>
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